Prom: A Dramatization
by OceanPenguin
Summary: In French, when someone asks you whether or not if you'd like to faire une promenade, you say yes, because who doesn't like walks? In English, well. What even is prom? Marinette shudders as she ducks past yet another dark corner; tumbling into one by accident was already traumatizing enough. Besides, she's got finals to study for.


A/N: I feel like prom is sort of a distinctly American thing that somehow made its way across the pond(s). Regardless, I only went because it was the thing to do. On a completely different note, I wanted a fic where Marinette wasn't the popular one all the time, because I wanted to see a story where the ugly duckling didn't become a beautiful swan. It becomes hackneyed when a girl goes through a physical transformation and suddenly becomes everything she wants to be, and I wanted a story where that wasn't a thing. As such, this means that this fic features lots of Alya & Marinette friendship.

Hello, world. Have a fic.

* * *

The wind clawed over the trees, bits of leaves and branches flying into the air like unappealing sacrifices to the force of nature howling its way through the streets. Bits of trash and dirt, suddenly resurrected, flew into faces and dove under dresses; boys swept hasty hands over white suits while girls picked bark out of their coiffed hair. Shawls went flying, gowns lost volume as their owners huddled for warmth, and albino male penguins straightened in futile attempts to assert their manliness.

Marinette slurped loudly from a smoothie, cynically eyeing the lipstick stain on the straw. Perhaps they should get in line for prom. It was 8:10, and the doors had promised to open by 8:00. Yet the line still wasn't moving.

"We should go," Alya said. She was crouching in the car's backseat huddling for warmth in a blazer and a slinky black dress. Her friend was a business exec in the making, if only she could exchange the cold for a starkly lit boardroom.

Marinette eyed a boy in the green dress standing next to a telephone pole. "I don't think any of them have moved. Besides, it's too cold to go outside."

"It's not," Alya said, and cracked open the door. The wind came howling through and the door slammed shut again. "Actually, you're right. It _is_ freezing."

The car had been parked directly across the galleria for well over a half hour now. Marinette had since parked the car and hadn't yet put her shoes back on.

Alya shifted as she inched around for a better position. "Why don't we go when the –"

She was cut off by the appearance of a loud bass beat and an equally aggressive truck. Several couples stepped out, giggling like mad in the cold, and managed to do _things_ that were only to be done in shadowy corners and dance floors for drunk minors. Or clubs. Marinette would bet on clubs.

They goggled.

There was a beat of silence for the dignity that had been lost and the embarrassment engendered.

Then – "Wanna go?"

"Let's."

They scrambled out, clutching purses and muttering curses as they scurried towards the line that was finally inching into the galleria.

* * *

After they'd gotten through security (Marinette nearly thought that she was going to get patted down for bringing a stack of tissue – and, honestly, no one ever had proper tissue at these things) and losing each other twice, Marinette finally had the presence of mind to take in her surroundings.

There was an unusually large amount of food, some sort of non-alcoholic drink table set up nearby, two chocolate fountains, privacy-invading elevators, and a bored DJ. The red light spinning through the room only served to enhance the fact that people were not at all excited to be here, but she had read that red light therapy was good for the skincare. Well. They would all look like extras from _Twilight_ , then.

Marinette wobbled in her shoes as she made her way towards the chocolate fountains. If there was anything that made life bearable, it was 55% cocoa chocolate chips, preferably melted. The fountains were manned by two pastry chefs, who looked awfully tired when the night was so young. One dripped what could charitably called sweetened cocoa butter and the other milk chocolate.

Well.

Beggars couldn't be choosers (thank goodness she had the sense to shop at a bargain store) so she simply swiped several strawberries and dunked them into the fountains. The pastry chefs watched her suspiciously. Marinette glared at the fountain and hoped the chocolate was tempered so it wouldn't drip onto her dress later.

She was also lost, and the chocolate was a good distraction. Huh. It was sweeter than she liked, but a shell was already forming on the strawberry. Tempered chocolate. Good.

"There you are!"

Alya grabbed her by the arm and they carefully edged around the empty dance floor, Marinette wobbling slightly less in her heels (the price one pays for five inches of height) and Alya conquering the place like a Wall street stock trader. She'd take over the world one day. Marinette couldn't wait to see it happen.

They plunked down in a plastic table surrounded by propylene chairs, and headed off to the taco bar. The entire thing could be a metaphor, Marinette thought idly, as she nodded and shook her head to offers of beans and meat. Partying in excess, security checks outside the doors but not inside the dance, girls and boys celebrating the exuberance of life while nature waged a war with humanity outside.

Scott F. Fitzgerald was depressingly relevant even a century later.

She even passed a an unnecessarily apt decorative fountain that was a particularly potent symbol of their dying economy: uneven water streams that gathered at the top where the wealthy were, a stone umbrella the cherubs hid under to hide their corruption, and the sad _plink plink_ of the occasional water droplet that inevitably made its way down to the drain installed on the bottom.

It was conveniently located as a photo prop hidden in the corner, and as Marinette passed the stone structure, she patted the thing.

 _You and me,_ she thought, and then tottered her way over to where Alya was standing in line for dessert.

* * *

The food was phenomenal. Marinette would say that she had gotten her money's worth – the salsa verde was divine and there were warm cookies in the ice cream sandwiches. She sat back and thanked the powers that be that she chose a loosely-fitting dress, which had allowed her to eat as much as she wanted. It would've been a shame to skimp on dessert just because she had to try and keep her belly as flat as possible for a flattering silhouette, which she suspected may have happened to a good third of the girls here tonight.

She looked down, then up. Her feet spasmed with horror at the prospect of the dance floor, and Alya winced in sympathy.

"Want to dance?" Marinette jerked her chin towards the slinky, gyrating mass of girls and boys appearing to enjoy themselves.

Alya cut her eyes sideways. "My feet hurt." She drew them out under the tablecloth, the feet swollen and noticeably red even under the crimson lighting.

"Same." Marinette's toes were staging a political coup in her shoes.

In tacit agreement, they decided to stay just where they were – beautiful statues stuffed full of food amidst the empty tables. Perfect.

The thing about sitting down, apparently, was that everyone thought that the table was fair game now that the majority of the table had gone. They weren't wrong, but Marinette had savored the silence and wasn't looking forward to the presence of strangers chatting.

"Hey," Alix slid near her.

"Hello." She mustered a smile.

"Having fun?"

"Yep. Feet hurt, though."

"That sucks. Well, I hope I'll see you out there when they're not so swollen!" She finished her cup of water and tossed the plastic cup into the composting bin.

Marinette winced. Plastic was recycling; she'd checked the triangle number on the bottom before carefully dropping her cup into the blue trash can.

* * *

No one seemed to be coming closer, but she wasn't about to take chances. She hurried to the taco bar and brought back a veritable mountain of chips and pico de gallo, praying that the partygoers around her would be afraid of dropping food onto their clothing (she was already practically neurotic) and would stay away from the one table that had food on it.

Her plan, well, it kind of worked. Alya had been in the bathroom during Marinette's taco run, and promptly offered their friends (Marinette wanted to call them acquaintances, but that seemed harsh) more food. More people were repelled than attracted, though, so Marinette was willing to mark this one as a success, but never to be repeated soon.

Alya checked the time. "It's 10:00."

"Crap. We've still got an hour left before they'll let us out." She buried her head into her arms. "I knew prom was going to be boring, but I didn't realize it was going to this bad."

"It won't be." A papery thump landed near her head. "We've got Econ on Monday, remember?"

"Oh yes."

Tests and tests and tests and more tests. The teachers seemed frantic on cramming four years' worth of education into three weeks; they were all going to die before graduation. But if there was one thing she was good at, it was studying.

So they hunkered down together and managed to plow through a good portion of a diagnostic test – their combined smarts managed to net them a 14/20, a passing score despite the fact they had guessed on practically the entire exam – and then got stuck on an answer explanation. Even the prep book Alya brought wouldn't solve the problem.

Naturally, the only thing left to seek out the econ teacher who had doubled as a chaperone tonight.

"You want this answered now? And here?" His eyebrows would've fallen off if they weren't attached to his forehead. Mr. Smith was probably wondering why they weren't on the dance floor and having the night of their lives, as it were.

"Yes, please," Marinette said, and then did her best to look as innocent and studious as possible.

"You see, Mr. Smith," Alya piped up, "there's that AP test on Monday, and we really want to do well."

He melted. "Well, then. So in this question, we're talking about monetary policy, so bonds and OMO. Because the economy in recession, they're going to raise the money supply by selling bonds and therefore raising inflation. US money is now worth less, so the euro appreciates in comparison."

Marinette popped her hand up. "Could you repeat the part about inflation?"

Mr. Smith, bless his heart, launched into a five minute mini-lecture on open market operations and currency depreciation. What Marinette had learned by the end was that the answer to the diagnostic test was wrong and that he really was passionate about economics.

* * *

Eleven pm came, not a second too late, and Marinette and Alya dashed back into the car. Marinette drove back after kicking her shoes off into the backseat, and they turned up the heater to compensate for the chill of the night air.

The streets pass by in a blur. Marinette clenches her hands on the wheel and makes intermittent noises to Alya's rambling commentary, which eventually dies down when she falls asleep and slumps against the door.

Marinette had to shake her awake and walk her to her door, and then drives back home. She thinks about Alya, and the food, and the econ test, and her throbbing feet. Prom wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

A/N: Marinette and Alya focus much more on studying than their social life. They are not meant to represent the nerdy yet hot girls who somehow, inexplicably, manage to easily navigate shark-infested social scenes and still maintain heavy workloads. On the contrary, Marinette and Alya are nerds, and proud of it. Hence, the lack of Adrien, because that boy belongs on the social scene. He's probably on the dancefloor with Chloe at the moment.


End file.
